


A Light in the Dark

by webcricket



Category: Supernatural
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-08
Updated: 2017-05-08
Packaged: 2018-10-29 09:20:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10851039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/webcricket/pseuds/webcricket
Summary: 1st Cas-iversary drabble request by anonymous – “Can I ask for Castiel where the reader struggles with depression and has a hard time sleeping because of it, crying to sleep every night instead, and Cas notices but realizes this isn’t something he can heal, so he just secretly watches over them and helps them sleep easier at night instead?”*THIS IS NOT MY USUAL SWEET FLUFF FOLKS.We should all should be so lucky to have an angel on our shoulder when life gets unbearably dark.*Warning:Triggers re: descriptions of depressive/hopeless/self-destructive thoughts.





	A Light in the Dark

Stumbling into the obscurity of your windowless bedroom in the bunker, hands running over the sticky mix of sweat and blood staining your clothes, you hazarded a fleeting glance at the dim night light lit outline of the bathroom door to your left. _Doesn’t matter if I shower, none of it matters._ Redirecting your momentum toward the far wall, you peeled off the outermost layers of soiled clothing, discarding them numbly on the floor before collapsing on the unmade bed and pulling the comforter up to your neck. Eyelids pressing tightly shut, the sting of tears overflowed your cheeks.

For you, bed was not a bastion of comfort, nor a place of pleasant dreaming – it was somewhere to hide, to shelter from the well-meaning inquiries of Sam and Dean Winchester, to conceal your inner turmoil from the inquisitive blue eyes of the well-meaning angel Castiel. _I wish it was all over. It would be easier on everyone if I could just go to sleep and not wake up again._ You rolled over, burying your face in the pillow to mask the sobs threatening to shatter your chest. _They wouldn’t even notice if I was gone. They wouldn’t miss me._

It was like this every night. The distractions and noise of the day, the focus and urgency of a hunt, made it easier to ignore the shadow of depression looming over you. But alone in your room, the burden became more than you could bear, the gloom creeping into every inch of your soul, a thick murky pestilence that left no space for hope to bloom. You could see no escape in the endless pitch black. As a result, you never drifted restfully to sleep. The flat expanse of your mattress served as a personal prison; where, nightly tortured by self-doubt, defeated by the futility of daily life, you voluntarily committed yourself, eventually succumbing to exhaustion – your only flitting desire before unconsciousness claimed you was that it would be the last time. _Please God, let it end._

Castiel rarely questioned any of your actions. He’d known you a relatively short time, and his understanding of the specifics of human nature continued to be somewhat limited in scope beyond his direct experiences with Sam and Dean. And they weren’t exactly the most emotionally open of men, respectively preferring to stow their troubles to the brink of cataclysmic eruption or drown them in alcohol. Your quietude, the far off dullness of your gaze, the forced quality of your laughter, the apathy of interest toward anything outside of hunting, did not alarm him. He once asked Sam about your tendencies - the younger Winchester brushed him off, offering only that you simply preferred to keep to yourself, that some people were like that, and you’d been that way since they met you so everything was probably fine.

Castiel wondered about the implications of being fine, noting with unease you were often careless with your life, rushing ill-prepared into a fight without a second thought to your own safety. This didn’t seem to him like a behavior someone who was fine would repeatedly engage in. Sam and Dean possessed similar bravery, yet in comparison were far less reckless than you, which was saying something considering how many times they’d died. It was either a testament to your skills as a hunter or dumb luck that you were not hurt more often. In fact, today was the first time the angel needed to intervene to heal you.

You’d been grievously injured by a demon, unconscious and near death when he found you sprawled in a seeping pool of your own blood on the cement floor of the abandoned factory. His fingers had hesitated over the deep oozing wound to your abdomen, stunned to inaction when he perceived the tranquil and relieved expression blanketing your features. You never appeared more at peace than in that moment and it somehow seemed wrong to disturb you. Disregarding the observation, grace flowing electric and warm to heal your mortal wounds, he watched a cloud of disappointment immediately unfurl to shroud your aspect. Physical injuries healed, he still sensed an overwhelming pain radiating from your soul – and allowing his grace to linger, found he could not mend what ailed you most of all.

You’d shoved his arm away angrily, frightened by the concern churning in the ocean blue depths gazing down upon you, mumbling an insincere thanks to cover your frustration at being saved. You didn’t want to be saved.

Castiel now stood unseen at the foot of your bed, listening to your soft muffled cries subside, hearing your desperate plea to _let it end_. In that moment, he recognized a bit of himself in you. He knew well the feeling of not belonging anywhere, not fitting in, being an outsider, the pervasive sense of failure, remembering everything he did wrong, could have done differently, the subsequent assumptions of worthlessness, the deflated confidence which leads to self-sacrifice, unable to see a way out – the ultimately all-encompassing need for the cycle to end, no matter what ending it entailed. He too, had battled inner demons no spell or sigil or powerful angelic grace could smite.

Moving to your side, he studied the shallow rise and fall of your chest and heard the slowing beat of your heart indicating sleep had finally overtaken you. Swiping an open palm lightly across your brow, he erased the swollen red puffiness of your eyes. A rare small smile alighted his countenance as his fingers tarried at your temple.

In the bleak landscape of your mind, Castiel planted a simple seed of hope – a budding tree to grow tall and strong, vivid golden beams of sunshine breaking through the dark clouds to provide nourishment, roots digging deep to weather the unavoidable storms, branches reaching upward, stout and resilient, to lift you out of the darkest recesses of depression, to carry you ever closer to the life-giving radiance of light.


End file.
